


Wedding Night

by Cotesgoat



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-consent, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cotesgoat/pseuds/Cotesgoat
Summary: "Tonight was her wedding night and her husband lay dead before her." – E/C dark one-shot; a very late Christmas gift for Nofacedfaith
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	Wedding Night

**A/N:** This story contains possibly triggering content including dubious consent and lack of consent. While not overly graphic, there are also several mentions of blood, death, and pain. Please proceed with caution if any of these themes are triggering to you. Thank you and enjoy.

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**_T_** onight was her wedding night, and her husband lay dead before her.

They had said their vows only a few hours before, promising their love for each other eternally, until death and forever beyond. She really hadn't expected the death to come so soon.

She had been there, beside him, as Raoul took his final breath, watching in horror as it was strangled with red rope from his lips at the hands of her former Maestro. It was her own foolish decision to visit her old teacher on that night, just after her marriage was declared before the Church. She only wanted to bury him, as she had promised just two weeks ago. But the man was not dead, and she only had herself to blame for the circumstances she now found herself in.

Christine de Chagny had been made a bride and a window only hours apart.

And now, she stood in her wedding dress and boots before the very man who tore her life and love from her grasp. She was made an empty woman, without her heart and without her husband, watching as the madman murderer pulled the red catgut off of a bleeding corpse-throat and stuffed it back into his suit coat.

He turned to her once the rope was tucked away, looking at her with a stiff jaw, his tongue pressing tightly against the top of his mouth. Besides the deviant look within his golden eyes, - one of a newly crowned victor- Erik did not look any different than he normally did, almost as nothing at all had just occurred.

Her Maestro circled her form, avoiding the corpse in front of the fireplace, and then stopped to stand behind her. He was so close, suffocatingly so, with only the bustle and short lace train of her wedding gown to separate them. His polished black shoes contrasted against the pure, virginal white lace.

"Pretty girl, do not look in that way." He pushed her rosy cheek with a single finger, angling her to look away from the cadaver by the fireplace. Though her sweet face was turned sideways, her eyes could not focus on anything but the body, her husband. She closed her eyes for just a moment, feeling the skeletal, parchment skin of Erik's finger pad and imagining the rapidity of decay of her own husband's hands. How soon, she thought, would his blood turn cold? When would the stiffness of rigor mortis and the stench of death sink in?

She opened her eyes quickly and looked away, she would not think of that anymore.

Erik seemed to have read her thoughts - invading her mind once more as he always had- and cupped her warm cheek affectionately. "Shall I dispose of him, sweet girl? It would only take a fortnight or so in the lake. Or perhaps I could place him in one of the boilers if you would prefer?"

"Erik," Christine started to warn, but did not have the will to continue. She was certain he knew of her feelings, how could he not? He once said he loved her, dearly and deeply, but no lover would commit such a crime to her life and sanity.

There was a low, deep chuckle from behind her, and she felt the wet warmth of his breath against her shoulders but not her neck. She still wore her wedding veil- a sweet, pure lace she had inherited from her Mamma Valerius that had turned from white to a yellowed cream in its years of age. Raoul had yet to remove it, and now he never would.

The veil was suddenly taken from her chocolate curls, pulled away and tossed to the side; it floated in the stale air for a few moments before falling down and caping over soft flaxen hair and a purpled face, covering the dead head of her husband in a sheer death's cowl.

"I have so often dreamed of this," Erik said, "removing your veil as a husband should." His hands found purchase against her shoulders, placed between the gentle ruffle-collar of her dress and the soft peach flesh of her shoulders. There was a small gathering of brown freckles on her right shoulder, just over her collarbone, that he gently brushed his thumb against. It was not so unbearable to be touched by him there, to be gently massaged with his musician fingers, but the thought of her husband and his drying-dead skin was ever present in her mind- so much so that her heart was rapidly thumping, too fast for her to catch, and her mind went hazy and aching.

Christine pulled away from Erik at once, pressing a shaky hand to her heaving breast. Her face was white, and her eyes went tightly closed again, shielding her view of him with her eyelids. She collapsed into herself, clutching her barren womb with her white-dress covered arms and shook, sobbing tearlessly. Her voice was weak when she cried out his name.

Her breath came hard and heavy, choking with each exhale; she could not breathe, could not calm her rapidly beating heart nor the panic that rose from belly to breast with each lift and fall of her diaphragm.

"Calm yourself, my lovely." Erik ordered her, placing his hand against the small dip of spine in her back. It should have been a welcome gesture- a kind, loving touch- but it felt too uncomfortable, too perverse.

Before she could dry away the small splattering of tears in the corner of her eyes, she was pulled back to stand against his chest. She was made again to face the body with her back forced against Erik's front.

Erik's head rubbed against her soft, coiling curls and he pressed his face against the back of her head. She felt a consequential wetness on her scalp and a thin stream of humidity only an inch higher - she knew he had to be without his mask.

Christine began to say his name, but he placed a hand to her mouth, silencing her. "I love you my darling, but I do so hate when you cry to me." He kept his hand there for a moment more before releasing. She did not expect him to want her to speak any further.

Once, in a hazy night that felt lifetimes ago, she had been told to use her voice- her golden gift from god- to her heart's extent, but now such an option was forbidden to her, stolen by his five, bony fingers to her lips. She knew better than to betray his orders. The result of a previous defiance still hung heavy in her heart and sunk painful in her belly.

His hands returned to her back, stroking affectionately against her spine and then snaking low to her hips. He pulled her backward, suddenly, and dipped his head into the skin of her neck. He pressed a kiss there, cold and wet, and she shivered at the morbidity; she did not want to be kissed by him.

She gasped after a moment when he did not discontinue his kisses, and she tried to pull away, but his hands were stone at her corset's edge, keeping her steady and solid. When he was certain she would not make a move, he lifted his hands to gently cup her face.

Erik licked her throat with his disgusting red tongue, leaving a trail of wet, slimy spit in his wake. She would have likened the thing to a slug, had she the ability to form a coherent thought or the option at all to speak.

Christine closed her eyes as she felt the corpse-hands of her Maestro trail from her lips to her cheek, stroking gently with too-thin fingers, then snaked back to her jaw, her mouth, and forced themselves inside. She gagged at the first taste of him - the disgusting metallic flavor of mildew and dust- and wrenched her face away.

She looked down and away from him, to the crimson rug and the roaring fire at the mantle. She could not look behind herself, not into the golden cat-eyes of her Maestro or into the sea-shaded ones that lolled aimlessly in the pale, lifeless head of her husband. Her poor Raoul.

She only had a moment to sniffle to herself before she was forced back to him. Their chests touched against one another, supple curves highlighted by a tightly corseted bodice pressed into the concave thinness of his own torso, and he forced his mouth against hers in his third kiss of death.

Erik shoved his tongue past her closed lips and forced her to accept him, demanding compliance, demanding her kiss.

He sucked and nipped at her fat bottom lip, tasting blood and spit and tears all while she remained as emotionless and stiff as a doll. He was like a parasite, sucking the air from her lungs and stealing away her life with his revolting, disgusting kiss.

Christine's mind was made to flutter with a hazy hatred that faded into a growing desire to reciprocate. But, she would not allow herself to feel for him, the man who had ruined her life and murdered her husband. She bit down onto his tongue sharply in retaliation, and a bead of fresh blood pebbled down his jaw.

It would be useless to run from him when he had such a mastery of her mind and soul; she knew he would find her wherever she fled to and would cause ruin upon every soul - man or otherwise - that stood in his way. She stood before him, her mind an overcast of cloudy defeat, but her beating heart was still strong enough to force a final denial- as useless as it may be- through her teeth. "I will never love you, I will hate you forever."

She looked upon him, his deformed and rotten face made uglier by blood, and had only a second of bravery before he reached forward and caught her swan-throat in his hand, squeezing lightly - enough to warn and threaten, yet not enough to fully suffocate. His eyes were angry despite his stern look, and they glowed with sparks of combustion.

Erik released her almost as immediately as he had grabbed her, and the poor girl fell to her feet, clutching at her throat and coughing for air. She looked up to him, frightened and horrified, and fingered with her thumb the crucifix medallion that swayed along with the necklace chain at her breast.

From her angle upon the floor, he seemed twice the height of his normal self, which was on its own a daunting and overwhelming presence. He was a deity, a god of hell, and for only a moment did her mind think of Raoul- her poor bridegroom, whose only crime was following her into the cellars.

"Down," Erik said, and a single word commanded her to obey, for fear of the alternative. She placed both knees and shins flat against the stone floor, following his instruction, and bowed so deeply forward that her covered breasts scraped nearly painfully against the cold granite. When Erik decided it was not nearly low enough, a bony hand found the space between her shoulder blades and pressed down flatly, forcefully, and shoved her deeper into the stone as he steadied himself above her. Christine knew what he intended, what soon would arrive, but pleading against him would gain her no freedom, no escape.

"Now, my darling girl, do not cry over your boy. Erik will give you your wedding night." She winced, it felt vulgar to hear such intimacies from his mouth. He was not her husband or the man she was meant to love.

A slobbering bead of bloody drool fell from the pulled edges of his deformed mouth as he moved downward to rest above her, and dropped down onto the back of her bodice. Her dress was already moist with a thin layer of lake water and sweat, a droplet of spittle would go unnoticed.

A knee on either side of her form, he pressed himself closer to her, now not even an inch separating them. Christine uncomfortably hitched her hips forward and away, but a firm grasp upon her shoulder steadied her and pulled her back to the devil behind.

The poor girl was shaking, frightened white from fear. Erik was a man of many passions, of music and of magic, his body another. He would claim her tonight, he'd steal away her maidenhood as forcefully as he stole away her husband.

She heard the shuffle of heavy fabric first before feeling the chilled cave air against the back of her calves and thighs; gooseflesh rippled from ankle to hip and thousands of tiny flecks of hair pricked up and at attention on her legs. She was cold, shamed, and frightened.

His skeletal hand left the cream-colored ribbons of her bodice and slithered down beneath the gown, touching gently at her pantalets, which were constructed of the finest white material, virginal in its appearance and feel. Christine stiffened and forced her eyes closed for a moment before opening them. The salt of her tears blurred her vision and the hatred and fear clouded her mind, but she saw in her peripheral the body of her husband, and thought of the sacrifices he had made for her happiness, which only caused a new bubbling of wetness to fall onto her cheeks.

One of Erik's hands groped at the covered flesh of her buttocks, twisting and kneading at the bloomers like a cat to its favorite blanket; Erik, too, had claws that dug into her skin and made her wince.

"Pretty girl," he commented, then snuck his fingers in between her legs. It was an odd feeling, having frigid fingers upon her naked thighs, but where pleasure might potentially burn, she would refuse the flint to light.

Their bodies were close now, with the fabric of his trousers touching the softness of her skin, and the feel of Erik touching where only her husband deserved to be both shocked and horrified her. He was a murderer, a thief, and tonight she was giving herself to him, the very man who tortured her in dreams and stole away both her happiness and husband.

She felt his other hand pull away from her hip where he had been holding her and drift down to the back of her, brushing along the curve of her cheeks, before finding permanence at her cunt. She gasped at the sudden feel. No man had ever touched her there before.

Erik fingered at the slick folds of her virginal womanhood and she shivered out of discomfort – he was not her husband; he had no right to her skin.

Only once before had she ever been touched so intimately, but only by her own hand.

Years ago, before she knew of her Angel as a man, just on the edge of womanhood, she had experimented newly with the secret spot between her thighs. It was an uncomfortable, embarrassing endeavor that left her thighs quaking and her heart thumping out a string of song for a nameless, faceless spirit; she had been so close, so near an unnamed, unfound peak of desire, of lust, of passion- only to be shamefully stopped by her own fear and modesty. She ran to the little opera chapel immediately after to beg God for forgiveness.

But in her heart where lust once blossomed, now only lay a withering, dying hatred.

His fingers did not halt any further at the arrival to her womanhood- he forced his hand deep against her folds and penetrated her womanhood with two thin fingers immediately. Her eyes shot open and she cried out as her body broke its final barrier. Her blood now too was upon his hands.

His fingers remained inside her depths, which tightened in rejection and refusal, until finally he slipped them outward. His fingertips were tinged with a warm pinkness that had not existed there before.

"You will open for me, darling girl." He demanded, and in response she parted her reluctant legs a little further, barely enough to take more than air between them.

His hand again found her folds, but this time his initial touch more gentle and less demanding or forceful. His fingertips padded lightly over the soft pillow of curls at her pubis while his left hand stroked the similar hair at her scalp. His fingers slowly moved further downward, stopping only for a moment when he felt the very edges of her labia, which were warm and delicate.

Erik continued his intrusive exploration, dipping his fingers between every crevasse and fold upon her flesh, moaning to himself with each new finding. He was well versed in the matter of sex and skin, but where his mind was familiar, his body was not, and it already bore a strong hardness in reaction.

Christine was no longer shaking now, but instead held a rigidness of marble despite the fastness of her pounding heart.

He slunk his fingers again into the warm hollow of her cunt, stroking and caressing, and pulled from her a new warm, gooey wetness that coated and slickened his bony fingers, which made each slide of skin less challenging. The poor girl returned to her quivering shakes, though now amplified by a soft little exhale and sigh that echoed along with her heartbeat. Her body, still pale in the dim firelight, had taken on a rosy blush, starting at the base of her fat cheeks, and extending downward to her labia, which now held an attractive warmth against his hand.

In and out his fingers moved, and Christine writhed with each intrusion, the unwanted pleasure intensifying at her core and traveling upwards to force a pink blush at her breasts and at the sides of her face.

A soft mewl escaped her throat, through the slits between her teeth and the rosy bottom lip that was pulled between them, and he drank it in intensely, sucking the pleasured cry through the cavern air and devouring it like a sweet, vintage wine.

Christine's hips were bucking now, moving backward and against his hand upon their own accord; her body responded to the pleasure mindlessly while her conflicted heart and soul were far less wanting.

Erik's ugly hands continued to force from her a sinful pleasure, his middle and forefinger thrusting upwards and in while he used his thumb to explore the outside wetness of her vulva, traversing along the quivering folds before finally, finally, finding the pearly-pink button at the top of her womanhood.

Christine let out a scream crying out to the heavens, to God, the name of the devil behind her.

She only had a moment to collect her breath, her thoughts, before a new thickness pressed against her asscheeks and slid itself between her thighs. It was already rubbing against her cunt before she could comprehend it.

Her breathing stopped for a moment at the realization; she knew he would not allow her the sweet kindness of love making, not after the hell and back he believed her to have put him through. She had told him once that she had intended to save herself for only her husband after having heard scandalous tales of backstage trysts between chorus girls and stagehands or between the male ballerinas. And so, he had resisted her in a gentlemanly fashion, but the Devil was the king of sin and five cellars closer to the fiery pits of hell, she was now quite certain that Erik was Hades himself.

A singular, skeletal arm nearly wrapped around her entire form as he clutched his chest against the bareness of her back. She tried to pull away, if only to ready herself for the second assault, but the monster would not allow such a generosity. He yanked her backward, forcing his bony hips to dig uncomfortably into soft, fatty, virgin curves from behind.

She still shook, now no longer nervous, but quivering from her fall from release.

Erik paused, his chest and hips were hot and heated against her, and she knew what he was asking, what his intentions were. She knew refusal was not what he expected or wanted, so shyly, she shook her trembling head just an inch.

"This may hurt," Erik warned, but gave no time to prepare before bringing his hips against hers and thrusting himself inside.

There had been an initial flash of pain, a burning soreness reminiscent of his first invasion, and she cried out, tears pricking in her eyes for not the first time that night. His hand was flat against the stone, and she reached out instinctively to steady herself and to hold onto him.

He was stilled behind her, allowing her one kindness of the night. In the moment, she let her eyes flit to the mantlepiece, and saw the body of her husband; the morbidity did not escape her. Beside them lay her darling husband's lifeless body, which had gone purple and cold postmortem, still covered by her wedding veil. If she had kept her eyes open and trained on the pretty blue eyes of her dead husband, perhaps she could imagine it was him making love to her- tonight was meant to be their wedding night, after all. But, she knew in her soul that the man touching and caressing her now was undeniably Erik, the man that held claim to her voice and now her body.

She was forced back to reality when he moved again, shoving himself further and deeper inside, burying himself up to the hilt and then nearly entirely out. He was slow at first, allowing her body to adjust to his own needy sex, but he could only restrain himself for so long before he started bucking against her.

Christine whimpered, wincing at the feel of sharp hips but sighing at the deeper feel of him inside of her at last. The initial pain of sex had subsided, blossoming now into an agreeable warmth of pleasure. Tentatively, she pressed her hips back against his, feeling confident with the growing ecstasy in her chest. She curled her fingers around his own and despite the scratch of stone, she kept them there.

Erik pounded and pushed ferociously inside her, letting every curve, every vein beneath his cock rub against and into the hot walls of her womanhood. A growl sounded behind her and the heat of his voice caused gooseflesh to prick up along Christine's spine, and she gasped.

Erik's veins pulsed from deep inside and out of her, each a welcome vibration against the wet walls of her sensitive canal; he thrust into her body with a steady but fast rhythm, pulsing along with the music of Verdi that played in a thunder in his head.

Christine cried out and he moaned at the sound, so lovely, so beautiful - the angels above had never sounded so beautiful. She whimpered again and again, thrice in the span of a minute, singing aloud the aria to match the vibrant and thrumming orchestrations of his mind. Twenty years he had spent on his Don Juan, and not a moment of triumph was as fine as the ecstasy he found between his beloved's legs.

Her eyes flew upon when she felt his thumb upon her pearly clit, the spasms of each singular nerve ending lit aflame. Her body, her soul, was burning, suffocating her with a violent and painful need for air, for completion, for release.

She caught sight of the body and looked into its eyes, which once held the color and spirit of Magellan's crashing seas but now were dulled into tarnished sea stone. She knew she betrayed his spirit by fucking his enemy, the very man who had killed him.

Her darling Raoul was dead before her- so freshly dead that not even the maggots or flies had come to mourn or feast upon his flesh- and she could not seem to bring herself to care.

Her orgasm came unwarranted, unwanted, and beating along with her rapid pulse, from toe to head and stopping in the middle at her center. She did not want to feel such a way, she did not want to lust after him, but her soul sang his name far louder and beautifully than her conscience sang of her husband.

Cold, dead eyes stared unnervingly at her as she allowed herself to be taken so forcefully, and despite the discomforting chill of morbidity, Christine pressed her hips back and forth against her living lover, crying out in ecstasy, "Erik, Erik..."

A few more thrusts and it was over for them both, solidified with a scream of name and a splattering of seed. His release flooded into her cunt and down her thigh, warming her skin and mixing with the flecks of the pink blood of her virginity.

Christine collapsed upon the stone floor, exhausted and unable to hold herself up any longer, for the pain of desire and guilt burdened and weighed too heavily.

It was not love-making, it was sex, she had to remind herself, which halfway blossomed into passionate ecstasy felt by both but uncomfortable and regrettable to one receiver. It was not the fairytale wedding night she had dreamt of, of which she nearly had. After, neither spoke a word, both cognizant of the grim oddness of their mating.

They were both quiet for some time. Erik basked in the afterglow of a pleasured release while Christine hurried to cover herself more properly with the discarded and torn dress. When she finally brought it on, she saw a red splotch of blood just above her knees; she did not know whose it was.

When she finally looked at him, his shirt had been ripped open down to his thin, skeletal sternum and she nearly blanched at the sight of skin. Skin, which looked as pale and deathly as Raoul's, but did not lack for the thumping pulse of purple veins shallowly buried beneath flesh. It was jarring to look at.

Erik's fingers were thin and bony upon her chin as he lifted it to face him, and she decided then that she did not so much mind the uncomfortable pinch, but the steady pulse of life was unbearable.

Erik looked down at her with golden eyes, his iris glowing in the darkness, sparking like embers of a dying flame. He studied her from head to belly, stopping only momentarily at the wet stain of scarlet. His inspection showed no lasting impact, no scars or sores, so he met again her eyes.

"My darling girl, you have given me life tonight." How she wished the same could be said for poor, dead Raoul. Erik pressed his thin lips to her forehead and she closed her eyes with shame; the guilt of her actions seeped through her blood and into her heart and pulsed upwards to constrict and ball in her throat. She wanted to cry, to sob for Raoul and for Erik, but no tears would come. She sniffled.

"Now, now; Erik will have none of that." He said and curled his hand beneath her chin; it was nearly long enough to take up her entire face within it. "Erik hates it when you cry. Go clean yourself and Erik will be here to sing you to sleep."

Her mind was much too foggy with both guilt and the drunken-satisfaction of a regrettable ecstasy to form a reply. Her knees were sore, her body swollen, and her head ached; a bath would be a welcome escape to the madness of reality the night had become. She trudged away, shaking at the legs and covered only with the dirty and torn wedding gown.

Christine locked herself in the bathroom of the Louis-Philippe room and scrubbed her body raw, forcing away the stench of sweat and death that coated her nakedness. Her cunt no longer bled and was clean of any remaining droplet of Erik's emissions, but when she looked between her thighs, she hated what she saw. Her body was totally and irrevocably changed; she was no longer pure, made into a wanton woman by no desire of her own.

She threw her wedding gown, a now useless gift purchased for her by her now former mother in law, into the tub as soon as she stepped out. She grimaced as she watched the blood turn the water pink.

When she reappeared in the little living room, only two of them were there. She did not ask where Raoul's lifeless body was, but did notice that the only remaining sign of him was her late husband's wedding band, still glinting gold and polished as was hours before, now fixed permanently upon another man's fourth finger.

That night, she prayed for her new husband, speaking a final _amen_ before climbing into his bed and burying herself beneath his bedsheets.

* * *

Merry, merry (late) Christmas to @lyinglowundertheraydar on tumblr aka Nofacedfaith! I want to apologize for this being two weeks out from Christmas, but I do hope you like it and that I fulfilled your request for the "dead doves" in this morbid little wedding night au.

Again, Merry Christmas! xoxo Cotesgoat

_**Please review :)** _


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